Hamlet (18 page)

Hamlet scowled at his stepfather, but the man appeared not to notice. With some difficulty, fumbling in his robes, Claudius found a large diamond and held it up to the light. The courtiers gasped, and a lady-in-waiting squealed. Osric broke into excited applause. “Most generous, Your Majesty,” he shouted. “Exceedingly generous.”

The king gazed proudly around the great hall. “This is the way we govern,” he proclaimed. “There is plenty for everyone.” He nodded to a servant, and the man, trembling with cold in his threadbare uniform, hurried to fetch Hamlet’s glass of wine. The king held it aloft and, after a last glance at the crowd, dropped the diamond into it. People gasped again, giggled, then a soft tide of whispers ran everywhere at once, like foam fizzing on the beach. Claudius dropped back onto his throne, wiping his face again and nodding to the same servant to refill his glass.

“I fancy that was rather well done, my dear,” he said to his wife, in what he imagined to be a whisper, but which was heard all around the hall. She gave only a nod of acknowledgment. Claudius raised his voice again. “Give Hamlet the glass.”

“Later, later,” Hamlet shouted back. “After the next round, perhaps.”

He did not see the king’s glare. Laertes had already launched himself at the prince, hoping to gain the advantage of surprise. It was within the rules but only barely within the conventions of sportsmanship. Hamlet was able to deflect the blade by nothing more than a centimeter, at the same time trying to sway out of the path of its vicious point. Somehow it was enough, and the thing passed him by. He twisted away and ran half the length of the hall before ducking to the right, turning, and preparing to face the oncoming Laertes.

Now Laertes fought with cold determination. It was all Laertes, wave after wave of skillful flourishes, at times moving so fast that the crowd could barely see the blade, darting and feinting and stabbing, driving the young prince back and back and back, like a dozen waves breaking in quick succession upon rocks that seemed too weak to withstand them.

Laertes’ body and blade had become one; the young man was nothing but movement. Although his mind was diseased, his body, for a brief interval, threw off its knowledge of his intentions and reached the apogee of its physical perfection. Perhaps too the body knew it had only minutes left to live, knew it would soon lie pierced and dying on the floor; perhaps some knowledge of that gave it the power and skill for this last expression of beauty and training.

Whatever, it was a new and glorious Laertes who with passion and grace fought Hamlet. His swordsmanship stopped the breathing of the spectators, returned sudden sobriety to the king, and set the queen swooning on the sofa where she sat.

Then it was over.

Laertes leaped, twisted, and stabbed at the space where Hamlet should have been. For a moment he seemed suspended in the cold air, a god who cared nothing for gravity. But the prince was too quick, and an instant later Laertes felt truth touch him in the side of his ribs.

“Another hit!” shouted Hamlet, emerging from under his opponent like a rat from a collapsed tower.

“A touch, a touch, I do confess,” gasped Laertes. He stood, breathing like man who is about to go to a very different place, one he has never visited before and cannot know. Yet his intention was to send Hamlet there, today, as soon as possible, by means foul or fair.

“Our son shall win,” said the king nervously.

“He’s short of breath,” said the queen. “Look how he sweats. Hamlet, my darling, come.” She went to him and dabbed at his brow with her napkin, then gave it to him so that he could wipe his whole face. At this cameo, Laertes stared and glared. No one was left now in his family to perform this service for him.

Gertrude turned and saw what she was looking for. A glass of wine. It was Hamlet’s. It stood on a small black wooden table, cold and alone. She picked it up. The king thought she was about to offer it to Hamlet, and he felt a glow of relief. If it came from her hand, the prince would surely drink! Claudius was so close to the solution! Why the young man was here at all instead of lying in two parts in an English graveyard was a mystery for which he had no explanation, but no matter, a sip from the deadly mixture would clear the air of Elsinore. Drink, drink, drink it!

Instead the queen raised the glass to her lips. “A toast to your good fortune, Hamlet,’ she said in her thick, luscious voice.

Claudius felt paralysis numbing his feet at the same time as it froze his heart. Nevertheless he managed to half rise from the throne. “Dear Gertrude,” he croaked.

She did not hear him.

He saw the arch of her neck as she exposed it to him for the last time. Her beautiful neck, still smooth and unmarked, after all these years. The glass was at her lips. “Gertrude!” he shouted. It was as though he had shocked her into drinking. He saw the movement of her throat as the foul wine ran down into her stomach to begin its work. She drank enough. More than enough. A sip would have done.

“Yes?” she asked, putting the glass back on the table and turning toward him.

“Your Majesty, are you all right?” Osric pressed forward.

The king sank back onto his throne. No matter now. Too late, too late.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “It is nothing. It is all nothing.” Claudius shuddered and wiped his handkerchief over his face. In the space of a moment, everything had gone irreversibly wrong. His reign was over; his life would probably be forfeit. After all, the ancient curse was on him. He had killed his own brother. In his bowels he had always expected this.

Gertrude shrugged. Her hand still held the cup. She offered it now to the prince. Claudius watched, indifferent. Hamlet would drink or he would not. He would live or he would not. It didn’t seem important anymore. Through the window at the end of the hall, the king saw three swans on the mound above the pond. The shadows of the castle made them look black. He almost smiled. Black swans. The day swans turned black, truly that would be the end of the world.

“I dare not drink yet, madam. In a while.” Hamlet pushed his mother away.

“Come, let me wipe your face properly.” Her voice was more throaty than ever. There had been a time when Claudius had thrilled to that voice. All through those years while his brother courted and won her and took her, the younger man had been a willing prisoner of her voice. Now Claudius had her, and he thought her voice sounded like the honk of a swan.

She clung to Hamlet, but he tried to push her away again. Claudius became aware that Laertes had somehow drifted to a position near the throne. With everyone watching the mother and son, the young man muttered, “Your Majesty, I could do it now. I’ll hit him now.”

Both of them knew of the deadly venom on Laertes’ sword. They knew because they had anointed the tip themselves, not much more than half an hour earlier. None but they knew. They were a pretty pair, these two, one intent on power, one on revenge, and both riddled through and through with the most potent force of all, hatred.

“No, no,” the king mumbled. “Not now.”

“This is not the time to be troubled by conscience,” Laertes whispered, as if to himself. “Even so, I am troubled . . .”

But no one heard him say it, so perhaps he did not say it.

They all heard a scornful Hamlet. He had cast his mother away. She staggered, although he had used no force. Now he challenged Laertes. “Come for the third round, Laertes. You are wasting our time. Don’t you take me seriously? Or are you getting nervous?”

“Say you so?” bellowed Laertes. “Come on, then.”

He rushed out in a clumsy charge more fitted to a drunk farmer trying to drive a cow into a bail. Hamlet was disconcerted and missed an easy chance for a hit. For a few moments the young men, so graceful and accomplished in the previous round, fought with all the skill of five-year-olds wrestling in a sandpit. They met and grappled and parted again, three times, except that as they parted from the third grappling, both stabbed at each other. They turned to the judge, each hoping he might have nicked the other.

There was a pause, then the judge, an old man named Voltimand, said quietly, “Nothing either way.”

Hamlet grimaced and made to step back, to ready himself for the resumption. As he did, Laertes, now chaotic with rage, shouted, “Have at you now,” and with a sudden awful stab wounded Hamlet in the arm.

He felt a certain dark relief that the poison was now irreversibly inside the prince’s body. Ophelia could rest in whatever peace she was able to attain, and his father could go to his last destination. But he was unprepared for the immediate outcome. With a roar Hamlet threw himself upon the young man, he who had once been his friend and who, unbeknownst still to Hamlet, had now murdered him.

The two fought furiously and had to be dragged from each other. Hamlet felt a curious buzzing in the head but was not yet slowed by the poison. The moment they were released, both rushed for their rapiers and picked them up.

“You’ve got the wrong ones,” called Osric, but neither man took notice. Hamlet heard the words but attached no importance to them. Either sword suited him well enough. Laertes heard the words but did not understand them until a sudden tearing pain burned into his heart. It all happened so quickly. The cut on his chest was nothing, yet it was everything. The pain should have been slight, but it was the bearer of a deeper pain that could not be borne. Laertes dropped to one knee, realizing with awfulness what had happened and now hearing Osric’s words properly. “The wrong sword,” he whispered. “The wrong sword.”

Osric appeared at his side. “My lord, are you all right?”

“All right? No, Osric, all wrong.”

As if through a dense thundercloud, he heard someone call, “Look after the queen. Quick. Something’s wrong.”

“She’s fainted.”

“Get a doctor.”

Laertes looked up and saw Horatio at Hamlet’s side. To his right he saw the queen lying on the floor, surrounded by attendants. He heard Hamlet asking, “The queen? My mother? What is wrong with her?”

From the throne came the king’s frightened voice. He seemed unable to move. “She swoons to see her son bleed.”

“My lord, are you all right?” Osric asked again. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

Before Laertes could answer, the queen’s voice, suddenly shrill with fear, cried, “No, no, the drink, oh God, the drink, it was poisoned. Dear Hamlet, I am poisoned.”

Despair filled Laertes. His voice filled the hall, even though he did not seem to speak any louder than usual. “Like a rabbit caught in his own trap, Osric, I am killed with my own treachery.” He forced himself to stand. When he did, he found himself confronting Hamlet again.

The prince was struggling to his feet, his face demented. “Let the doors be locked!” Hamlet shouted. “There is villainy here. There is treachery. I will seek it out.”

Laertes felt an extraordinary calm. A new strength entered him, to sustain him for the last moments of his life. “You do not have to seek far, Hamlet,” he said. “It is here, in me. Hamlet, you are murdered. You have only a few minutes to live. The weapon is in your own hands: the sword you hold is poisoned. It is I who applied the poison to it, and it is fitting that the foul wasp has turned on me and stung me as well. Your mother has sipped poisoned wine, which we also meant for you.”

With no warning, all his strength rushed from him. He was staggered by its swiftness. He dropped to his knees. No act in his life took more resolve than the simple raising of his hand to point at the king. “There is your enemy,” he said. With a sudden surge, a last expression of the life force, he stood, then in an instant fell forward, lifeless, hitting the hard stone floor with a thud that must have broken every bone in his face.

To see Horatio now was to see love at work. His expression was as demented as Hamlet’s, but he held his friend even as he shouted to the servants to carry out his prince’s orders. “Seal the doors! Let no one leave. Let no one draw a weapon, should he set any value on his life. Hamlet, over here.”

He tried to draw Hamlet to a seat, but the prince threw him off easily and staggered to his mother. Hamlet had so much he wanted to explain to her. He wanted to tell her all the reasons for everything he had ever done, everything. But time had lost interest in them both. Time had already turned itself to other affairs. Gertrude had slipped away while the men were shouting, her tortured soul gone to another world where her first husband awaited her and her second was about to join her. Her eyes were closed and her skin cooling. The ladies-in-waiting were starting to step back, to distance themselves. Gertrude had never inspired affection or devotion in other women, and they understood already that their futures lay elsewhere. They had to think of themselves.

Hamlet wanted to shout obscenities at them for their lack of loyalty — they did not love his mother as much as he did, and that was unforgivable — but he knew time would not spare him for such things. All he could hope now was that it would grant him another minute, for the last task of his life, the one he had been charged to do so long ago. His failure to execute it had caused chaos. It had caused tragedy.